


Murder Games

by aigo_babiesatemydingo



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Changing POV, Edward’s POV, Established Relationship, Let’s play murder, M/M, Murder Kink, Nygmobblepot, Oswald’s POV, Torture and murder, Victor is Penguin’s homegirl, murder boyfriends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 13:36:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5250101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aigo_babiesatemydingo/pseuds/aigo_babiesatemydingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward wants to get back at one of the people who’d ridiculed him for so long, and he wants to make it bloody. Oswald is more than happy to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set a few months after 2x09 A Bitter Pill to Swallow, so will end up AU from the episodes after that one.  
> I'm trying to write this with the correct American-English words (other than spelling because Word would throw a thousand red squiggly lines at me) so please let me know if my Britishness is shining through and I'll fix it.

“Boss,” Gabe said, and Oswald looked over and up to the other man who’d stepped into his office, giving him his full attention.

“Yes?”

“Russo is here to see you.”

Oswald sighed. Russo was really starting to grate on his last nerve. The man ran an illegal gambling joint on the other side of the city, a section formerly run by Maroni, and ever since Oswald had taken over the man was like a petulant child. He didn’t like Oswald being in charge, which meant he didn’t like paying him for protection and to continue being allowed to run his business in Penguin’s city. There had been many times Oswald had come close to killing the man, but Russo brought him in some good money, and he had enough men loyal to him that if Oswald disposed of him it could cause Oswald some problems. So he’d held off, so far.

“Send him in,” he instructed Gabe, and the man left again with a polite nod of his head.

He wondered what Edward was doing right now. He’d be at work at the GCPD, most likely half buried in a corpse, Oswald thought fondly. Edward loved the puzzles murder brought, delighted in finding what caused them, and found endless joy in solving the riddles of their deaths. It was quite sweet, really. Watching Edward with a corpse reminded Oswald of happier days, when he’d hand his mother a present on Christmas day and her eyes would light up like the most radiant of jewels. Edward would get that same look in his eyes in the autopsy room.

The fond smile dropped from Oswald’s face when the door re-opened and Gabe brought that nuisance of a man Russo inside.

“Mr Russo,” he greeted regardless, gesturing for the man to take a chair on the opposite side of his desk to himself. “To what do I owe the pleasure this time?”

The man scowled at Oswald’s disinterested, bordering on sarcastic tone. Russo didn’t take the offered seat, and Oswald’s face darkened at being disobeyed. “I said – sit.”

Gabe forcefully shoved the man into the chair, and Oswald watched him coolly. Why wasn’t he just killing him again? Perhaps he could just have Victor arrange an ‘accident’.

“Your man Agosto is causing me problems,” Russo said, not even bothering with the social etiquettes one should show their betters. Oswald’s dark look deepened, and behind Russo Gabe shifted, his hand moving closer to a concealed gun.

“What you gonna do about it, huh?” Russo asked. “I can’t be running my business with that looser loitering about putting all my customers on edge.”

“Agosto,” Oswald said, keeping his tone as flat as he were able to manage through grit teeth, “is there, Mr Russo, because you’ve made me feel as though I can’t trust you. So perhaps it’s not so much what I should do about Agosto so much as it’s about what you should do about Agosto.”

Russo didn’t look pleased. He banged his hands down on Oswald’s desk, and Gabe immediately pulled out his gun, but Oswald waved him down, sharp eyes fixed on the pest of a man before him. He simply couldn’t continue to put up with this insolence. Possible retaliation be damned, Oswald was getting rid of this man.

Decided, Oswald twisted his mouth into the imitation of a smile, sneering and as fake as his liquor licence. “But perhaps we could reach an agreement like gentlemen. I’ll remove Mr Agosto, and you in turn will prove your loyalty to me. You won’t miss a payment, and you will cease to cause me any hassle. Does this sound agreeable?”

“Things were better with Maroni,” Russo spat. “God knows how you waddled your way to the top, Penguin.”

It seemed that Oswald would be taking a trip with Victor to ensure Mr Russo had a very tragic accident this evening. Oswald was going to kill this man himself.

“I asked, do we have an agreement?” He didn’t hold back how he felt this time, this type of insolent behaviour would not be stood for.

He let Gabe’s gun be shown this time, and Russo reluctantly agreed when cold metal nudged the back of his neck.

“Excellent, well then Mr Russo, allow Gabe here to show you out.” He nodded to the door, and Gabe roughly pulled Russo up from his seat and led him out.

Once the door was firmly shut behind them, Oswald sighed out his anger and relaxed back into his chair. After taking a few breathes he pulled out his cell and sent a quick text off to Edward, telling him to stop by the club after work. Oswald wanted to see him. He then rang Victor, telling him to come to his office immediately.

“Don’t sit, we’re going on a field trip,” Oswald said when Victor entered five minutes later. Where he’d come from Oswald had no idea, nor did he particularly care what the man got up to when not on the job.

The assassin smiled at his words, wordlessly stepping aside, allowing Oswald to exist first. Russo should have learnt a few manners from Victor.

“Where are we going, boss?” Victor asked as they left the club and stepped out into the drizzle of a typical grey Gotham day. Oswald put up his trademark umbrella, but Victor seemed unbothered by the wet.

“Mr Russo is going to be involved in an awful, unforeseeable accident that will tragically end his life.”

He glanced to the assassin, and Victor looked as happy as his usually stoic expression would allow. Why, by his standards he was practically beaming. Oswald grinned, it was nice to be passionate about something, especially when you’re good at it, and Victor was the best.

They walked over to Victor’s car, Oswald climbing into the back seat, putting his umbrella back down and shaking it of excess water as Victor got behind the wheel. They headed to the other side of town.

He’d missed this during the days Galavan had kept him on his knees, even after that bastard was dealt with. He’d managed to take everything from Oswald, his mother and his empire. But Oswald had not gotten to where he was by rolling over and taking what life threw at him. He’d thought hard, tooth and nail, to achieve what he did, and he would never allow another to take that from him, not for long.

Taking back his empire hadn’t been too hard. Gotham was far too corrupt to thrive without its criminal underbelly. Once Edward had helped him get back on his feet and sort his life out, he returned to what he did best. He got in contact with those he knew were loyal to him, and his first order of business was having Victor kill Captain Barnes. Oswald wasn’t an idiot, he knew the captain would not be swayed or bought, he was a man like Jim – he had strict morals which he stuck to. So the man had to die, and whoever took his place could be bribed. It worked out exactly as he’d planned. He’d had the dirty cops Barnes fired reinstated on his payroll, an apathetic and greedy captain running the police force, and his arrest warrant, as well as those who worked for him, vanished soon after that. In just a few months he had everything back running how it was, like nothing had changed. Nothing except, of course, his dear mother’s presence. He missed her, would always miss her and love her, but he couldn’t cling onto that feeling of loss – Edward had helped him get over that. His love for his mother was a weakness, but now he had none. Now he had nothing to lose. Now he had nothing to fear.

When they pulled up outside Russo’s place, Oswald was the first to get out the car. The rain had gotten heavier, but the umbrella protected his suit. Victor still had no reaction to the rain, and looked to Oswald. “Want me to go in and kill him now?”

“No,” Oswald said. “I want to kill him. But I don’t want any witnesses. If anybody sees, kill them cleanly and dump the bodies.”

“You got it, boss,” Victor replied, looking only a little let down.

“First, however, we need to get ready to set the scene.” He stepped away from Victor’s car, heading to a nearby parking lot and the car he recognised as Russo’s. Arrogant as he was, Oswald didn’t doubt for a minute that the man left his car keys in the ignition. It was a test, Oswald knew that, Russo wanted to know if anyone dared steal from him. Unlucky for Russo, Oswald did dare. The car was locked, but Victor easily opened it up with no visible damage. Oswald plucked out the keys, turned off the alarm, and pocketed them with a grin.

“I’m going to have fun with this, Victor,” he smiled, malicious and borderline feral. “That man has been nothing but an irritant for far too long.”

It didn’t take long for Russo to come back out, and when he did Victor was waiting for him. After a brief struggle the man was unconscious and thrown into the back of his own car, all weapons removed from his person.

“Make sure no one saw,” Oswald said, glancing around the apparently empty parking lot. “Then meet me at Maroni’s old weapons warehouse on the outside of town.”

He climbed into Russo’s car, looking back at the unconscious man as he kicked it into life. “I’m sure you’d enjoy dying at Maroni’s place,” he chuckled. “After all, you did like him so much.”

He pulled out of the parking lot, glancing only once in the rear view mirror at Victor before driving off into the growing darkness, the sun setting behind the dull grey of Gotham’s skyline.

By the time they reached the outer city, Russo was beginning to regain consciousness. When he fully woke, Oswald already had his door open, waiting with a grin.

“Good evening, Mr Russo. I hope you had a pleasant sleep?”

Groggily, the man sat up in the back of the car, his eyes slowly focusing on the mob boss stood before him. “Penguin? What are you…” He blinked, regaining his senses, and Oswald patiently waited as Russo’s face twisted. “What are you playing at?! What is this?!”

“Really, Mr Russo,” Penguin scolded, shaking his finger, “there is no need for shouting.”

Umbrella in one hand, he pulled a gun from his suit pocket and waved it to signal for the man to get out. Russo did so, reluctantly, and Oswald made sure to move aside so his umbrella wasn’t protecting the annoyance from the heavy rain. “Let’s go.”

He kept a close eye on the man as they walked, not doubting he’d try something. Sure enough, when Oswald was momentarily distracted putting down his umbrella after stepping into the warehouse, Russo aimed a kick at his bad leg – but Oswald was quicker. He’d seen it coming, and all it took was one shot to Russo’s knee and he was down with a scream, clutching at his leg.

Oswald let out a put upon sigh, as if disappointed. “You’ve only hurt yourself, you know. Now you have to walk with a useless knee.”

And Oswald made him. The screaming and cursing was a song in his ears, and he chuckled the whole way as they slowly walked to the back of the building, a trail of blood marking the path they took.

By the time they came to a stop, Russo was as pale as death, sweating like he was seriously ill and shaking like a dog left out in a snow storm. He was utterly defenceless now, so Oswald pocketed his gun and hobbled to the edge of the room where a metal baseball bat was waiting for him – the reason he’d made Russo walk all this way. He picked it up, feeling the satisfying weight in his hands, and returned to the disloyal lackey with a bright smile.

“I could have just killed you cleanly, a shot to the head with no pain,” he said pleasantly, and then his smile turned into a snarl, and he swung the bat hard – the crunch of bone and scream causing him to laugh gleefully. “But I’m going to beat you to death instead.”

 

~*~

 

After a stop at home to change his bloodied clothes, Oswald headed back to the club. Checking his watch he had about an hour until Edward would finish work, but even with Victor taking care of Mr Russo’s body he still had a few loose ends to tidy up himself. There had been a few problems in the shipment of drugs from Asia, nothing too much to handle. As far as Oswald could see it was some vigilante type, thinking they could clean up a city as dirty as Gotham – he almost pitied the clueless idiot. Easy to deal with, he sent some of his people off to oversee the delivery, instructing them to shoot any moron in a mask. That settled he only had to make sure the club was fully stocked with alcohol, the idiot waiters were present and accounted for, and open the place up for the night.

Once the patron’s began coming in for the night Oswald sat with a drink and let his mind wonder. As it had been prone to do lately, he found his thoughts on the forensic scientist. He wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but they’d become something more close than merely friends. They weren’t lovers – Oswald would sooner shoot himself in the foot than say that word, and boyfriends was laughable – far too cutesy for what they had. They were… fuck buddies? Friends with benefits? Two psychopaths who’d come to a mutual agreement for sexual release? He had developed feelings of some sort for Edward, he wouldn’t deny that, but still Oswald didn’t know what to call them. Edward didn’t care for terms, though, so in the end it didn’t really matter. They don’t need a word for it.

It was like Edward said, for men like them love is weakness – they’re better off unencumbered. Caring for somebody would be used against you; it was going into a gunfight armed only with a knife.

But that didn’t mean they couldn’t have fun. Oswald did feel something for the forensic scientist, he’d be lying to himself if he pretended otherwise, but it was something simple, something easy, and he wouldn’t allow it to become anything more. Neither, he knew, would Edward. Gotham is not a city of endless dreams, it’s a city that takes and takes, and then gives you something just to rip it away. To succeed in this city, you need to have nothing it can take from you. You have to be ruthless, you have to be cruel – even to yourself. But that’s okay, because that’s the only way Oswald knows how to live.

What they did have, however, was a rather… sticky subject. It wasn’t a relationship Oswald had with anyone else. Edward wasn’t just a friend, or an underling, or a colleague. He was a something else, whatever that meant. But it worked for them, it definitely worked for them. Oswald had come to find that he did genuinely enjoy Edward’s company – the man was funny, intelligent, and had a passion for death unrivalled by anyone Oswald had ever met. Occasionally the riddles could become aggravating, but for the most part he’d come to accept them as just another of the forensic scientists quirks. However there was one thing that Edward did that just didn’t sit well with Oswald; the man cared little to nothing if anyone knew just what type of partnership they had.

Oswald, on the other hand, was less willing to be open about their relationship. While Edward had seemed to give up caring about other people’s opinions of him, Oswald did not have that same luxury. Being the head of the mob meant he had a certain image to upkeep, and being gay did not fit in with that. This was a business where a person had to be tough, ruthless and intimidating to survive, and homosexuality was seen to compose none of those traits. It would be seen as a weakness, and if there was anything Oswald Cobblepot hated, it was being perceived as weak. He’d played his roles well; he’d lied, manipulated, cheated, betrayed, fought and killed his way to the top. No longer was he seen as that weak, insignificant umbrella boy for Fish Mooney, now he was king. And he would not, could not, let anything stain that image. He was already a little short, and had a bad leg, there could be no other weaknesses because he was swimming through an ocean of sharks ready to sniff out the first drop of blood.

So he had a strictly platonic rule with Edward outside of either of their homes. He didn’t mind Edward coming to the club, enjoyed it even, but only as a friend. Edward didn’t seem bothered by this, but it didn’t stop him from rolling his eyes every time Oswald would avoid physical contact.

At home, however, or at Edward’s place, it was a whole other story. Oswald hadn’t really properly dated someone before (though could you call what they had as dates? Oswald was no expert but he could guess most dates probably didn’t involve murder). He’d never attracted much attention, but even when he did he’d been far more focused on making something of himself to stop to look for somebody he could be with. He’d dated briefly a few times, and had one night stands when he desired another’s touch, but Edward was the first person he could honestly say he had any kind of real feelings for. And… it all came back to how that could turn out, every time he thought of it. Feelings could be used, could be weaponized, could be the deadliest force in the world. Oswald had learnt just how truly dangerous they were when his dear mother was murdered, when she laid dying in his arms. So he was wary about what he had with Edward. He knew he could be hurt, that Edward could be used against him (hell, Edward himself could turn on him, Oswald had no delusions about that) and that’s something he just can’t stop nagging at the back of his mind every time he thought of his beautiful killer.

But Edward was smart, and as ruthless as Oswald himself. Oswald didn’t need to worry about him, and he told himself this every day. But regardless he still did. Try as he might, and as much as he tried to deny to himself that Edward mattered, he just couldn’t shut that worry off.

“Hey, boss,” Gabe’s familiar voice said, and Oswald woke from his thoughts. Gabe nodded to the club’s main area. “That scientist friend of yours is here.”

Oswald blinked, and looked across the club to where Edward was sat near the stage, watching the entertainment. Sat at the bar, Oswald knocked back another shot as he watched the man who’d become known as the Riddler.

As if he could feel his gaze, Edward turned in his seat and brown eyes met blue. Edward smiled that bordering on deranged smile Oswald loved so much and beckoned him over. Without even thinking about it Oswald got to his feet and was heading to him before he’d even realised he’d moved.

“Edward,” he greeted, taking a seat next to him at the small circular table. He looked up to the stage where his mother used to sing, but now it was only some non-descript band performing.

“Oswald,” Edward replied, small smile still on his lips.

They said nothing more until the band eventually packed up, and a young woman with hair like Oswald’s mother’s had been took up the stage.

“Would you like to play a new game?” Edward asked, and in the glint of his eyes Oswald could see a thousand riddles just waiting to spill out into red.

“Who’s the game?” Oswald asked, running a long spindly finger along the curved edge of the table.

“Officer Andrews,” was the reply, and Oswald fixed his gaze on the other man.

“A GCPD officer? I’ve never heard of him.”

“He’s a nobody,” Edward dismissed, but the tone of his voice said otherwise. “A nuisance to be squashed.”

Oswald considered him for a few stretched moments, already knowing he would agree. Edward knew it too.

“Okay, Eddie,” he nodded. “A game could be fun.” He edged a little closer, tilted his head in enquiry. “Explain the rules.”

Edward’s smile split wide, teeth shadowed sharp in the dim lighting.

Edward Nygma’s games were always interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

Edward hummed to himself as he wrote up the report on the death of poor Mr Russo. It seemed the man had gotten into a terrible car accident on the way home yesterday. Tragic, truly. Why, a few of those injuries were bad enough that they almost seemed purposefully inflicted, though Edward reassured detective Gordon that wasn’t the case at all. The man seemed to be under the impression that the car wreck was somehow a cover up and had come in with a lot of questions. And when the irritating detective brought his worries to his girlfriend, Doctor Thompkins also seemed a little concerned, but she was quickly distracted when an argument started up between herself and the detective. That may have been Edward’s fault – oops! A few misspoken words and the two were at it like children on a playground.

 

He chuckled, marvelling at how easy this was as he typed up the last few sentences. The advantages of being over looked meant nobody ever suspected him of a thing. Honestly, if only the detective and doctor took a moment to think, it was as clear as day that Edward’s words were carefully chosen rather than just social awkwardness. It was also a disappointment; Jim Gordon was usually so perceptive. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted, and it kept Oswald safe from any investigation.

 

He hit print, and filed the report away neatly. The new captain already knew about the outcome, so Edward felt no need to bother him with a trivial accidental death – not, he strongly suspected, that the man would actually care. Now that was out of the way, Edward had something much more fun planned. He scurried from his desk and out to the bullpen, casting his gaze around for officer Andrews. Ah, there he was. And detectives Gordon and Bullock where close to him, good. With one eye on Andrews, he headed for Gordon, plastering a bright smile on his face.

 

“Detective Gordon,” he said once close enough, and three pairs of eyes turned to him. He held back the smirk that tried to overtake his smile. “I just thought you’d like to know that I finished the report on Mr Russo. Definitely an accident. Death caused by a high speed crash. It appears that Mr Russo was speeding in the rain and lost control of his car. All injuries are consistent with-”

 

“Yeah, thanks, all we need to know, Nygma,” Harvey Bullock interrupted, and Edward cut off his speech. It did so aggravate him when nobody would listen, would brush him off like he didn’t matter, disregarded and forgotten so easily. “You had me at ‘accident’. Now, Jim, lunch?”

 

But Edward, vexed, didn’t leave. He stared, wide brown eyes intense and unblinking until the two detectives looked back, and smiled again when he had their undivided attention.

 

“Feared by most, cherished by all, you don’t want me knocking at your door but are blessed if I call. What am I?”

 

“How many times, Ed,” Harvey sighed. “Nobody gets your riddles. We have jobs to do; babies to pull out of trees and cats to save from fires or something, we don’t have time to stand around solving riddles.”

 

“Well apparently you do, since you were going to lunch – again,” Edward snapped, and received looks of shock in return. Right, because odd Ed was incapable of standing up for himself – that’s what everybody thought. Weird Edward Nygma good for help but that was it, you certainly didn’t want to spend longer than you had to around him. Feeling defiant, he pushed his slipping glasses up his nose and met Gordon and Bullock’s gazes, standing straight and tall.

 

“What’s this, Nygma, finally growing a backbone?”

 

Officer Andrews made his presence known, and Edward grit his teeth. Although this is what he wanted, the Neanderthal of a man never failed to set him on edge. Edward reminded himself of his plan, thought of how Andrews would sound when the only thing coming out of his mouth was screams. “Pity you waited until Kristen was gone. You might have actually had a chance with her then, however small. Tell me, how did you bribe her into a date in the first place? Promised you’d shut up if she’d fuck you?”

 

He laughed, and Edward’s jaw was clenched so tight it ached, teeth too. Soon, he assured himself. Soon Edward would be the one laughing as officer Andrews screamed and begged him to stop. He could almost feel the warmth of his freshly bled blood already, running over his hands and down his arms in red streams of revenge. He’d show this ape just how inferior he truly was.

 

“Hey, that’s enough, Andrews, knock it off,” Jim, ever the hero, stepped in.

 

Reminded of his audience, Edward forced his face back into a smile. It felt horribly unnatural. “Do you know the answer, detective Gordon?” He asked, blanking Andrews, knowing how much it would piss the imbecile off.

 

Jim turned to him, a weary look in his eyes. He hadn’t enjoyed that riddle, no, not at all. But he knew the answer; Edward could see it in his eyes.

 

“…A quick death.”

 

“Correct!” Edward beamed. A quick death – something Andrews would not be blessed with. “Mr Russo had a quick death, virtually painless. Impact, bam! Death.” Or not, but he would have if only it were the impact which had killed him.

 

Officer Andrews scoffed loudly, purposefully, unable to go without being the centre of attention for more than a minute. “What is with your fascination with death, huh, you freak?”

 

“I said knock it off, Andrews!” Jim warned, voice raised, and officer Andrews shot him a dirty look, knowing he was unable to argue with detective Gordon. Things didn’t go well for officers who crossed Jim Gordon. And soon, the same could be said for those who crossed Edward Nygma, though he had something more creative than the loss of a job or prison in mind.

 

“That’s okay, detective Gordon,” Edward said smartly, looking down his nose at officer Andrews, silently revelling in his taller stature. “I don’t expect a person of such dim wit to appreciate a riddle. Clearly officer Andrews don’t possess the mental capabilities to think beyond ‘hungry, ‘angry’, ‘sleepy’ and ‘sex’.”

 

Jim and Harvey’s eyebrows shot up, leaving Edward feeling smug, even when Andrews deliberately slammed him hard with his shoulder as he stormed away to go lick his wounds elsewhere.

 

Edward watched him go. Oh, he was sure going to enjoy this game.

 

“Hey, Ed, lunch?” Harvey asked, and this time it was Edward who raised his brows. So he’d earned the honour of eating with detective Bullock, had he? He held back a snort and smiled again.

 

“I would be delighted to.”

 

He followed the two detectives out of building a pace behind them, tuning out their conversation as he watched Jim in particular. Gotham’s most moral cop had been acting rather strange around him lately. Like how weary he looked at Edward’s riddle. These past few months there had been multiple homicides throughout the city, and they would have been perfect crimes, flawless, with no trace back to the killer – except for the fact that the killer would purposefully leave a clue in the form of a riddle. The killer, who’d become known as the Riddler, dubbed so by the ever uncreative press (though Edward could admit a liking to the name), was the subject of much talk at the Gotham City Police Department, and the only person anyone knew to love riddles was Edward.

 

He knew Jim would figure it out – he was sure the man was already looking for any evidence against him. But he wasn’t completely convinced yet. After all, Edward Nygma was just an awkward, nerdy science enthusiast, incapable of hurting a fly.

 

But with the bodies and riddles, and Miss Kringle’s sudden disappearance with only a note claiming to have run off with her ex, who’d also up and vanished suddenly, Jim would be a fool to overlook Edward.

 

Yes, Jim would definitely discover him, but Edward didn’t mind. It would be fun. He couldn’t wait to see the reactions of everybody; all those who’d assumed they could walk all over him without facing retribution. He’d out himself, if only it meant he wouldn’t have to leave his job.

 

When Jim turned to look at him, Edward met his gaze with the brightest of smiles.

 

He didn’t like the way Oswald behaved around Gordon…

 

“Keep the pickles on.”

 

“What?” Blinking, Edward shook himself from his thoughts to see detective Bullock holding out a hotdog to him, topped with sauce, onions and pickles. Edward didn’t like onions. He took the offered food automatically, glancing to the food truck behind the detective.

 

Stupid. How did he miss this? Edward had always been keenly observant, yet he somehow managed to miss an entire food truck – not to mention the smells wafting from it. Perhaps he was starting to get lazy. All his games so far had been so easy, yet no one was catching up. There wasn’t enough stimulation, he decided. Maybe he should give the police a few extra hints.

 

Contemplating, he began to pick off the dices of onion, dumping them into a napkin.

 

“Layers and layers, stinging eyes, making Ed want to cry,” he muttered to himself, looking at the little pieces of white vegetable devils.

 

Once he was satisfied it was all gone, he dumped the napkin into a nearby trash can and took a tentative bite. A slight taste of them still lingered, but it would do. The pickles did indeed taste nice, he found, and masked the onion residue well.

 

Although Edward would rather cook his own meal, occasional fast food was fine, but after this he may have to cut back on the amount he ate at the next Chinese takeout murder party with Oswald. It had sort of become their thing. Every month or so they’d order a small mountain of Chinese food, break out some cheap(-ish – Oswald refused to go too cheap) beer and kill whatever spare lackey had failed Penguin one too many times. It was always such good fun, and a great way for two people with similar interests to bond.

 

“Eat up, Ed, you’re staring into space,” Harvey said, and Edward cast a quick glance to him.

 

“Hot dog, or frankfurter, popularised in America by German immigrants, who also brought the dachshund dog breed. American’s, amused by the sausage shaped dogs, began to refer to the sausages – or Wurst – as hot dogs. Survey data shows that in one year nine billion were bought in retail stores, and an estimated twenty billion are eaten by Americans each year.” Edward picked off a pickle and held it up to his eyes to examine. It really did taste nice; perhaps he should keep a piece to examine back at the labs.

 

“… Just eat it, Nygma,” Harvey sighed with a shake of his head.

 

Finishing off his hotdog and half listening to the two detectives chat between themselves, Edward wondered when the next interesting murder not caused by him would come in. He wanted a challenge he decided as he placed the last pickle into an evidence bag and pocketed it.

 

 

~*~

 

 

“That’s him,” Edward said, holding out his phone to Oswald so he could see a photo of officer Andrews. “Do you have somewhere we can take him?”

 

Oswald nodded as Edward tucked his phone back away. “There’s a warehouse on the edge of the city that would do. It’s where I took Russo. I could show it to you tomorrow, if you’d like?”

 

Edward giggled with a nod and shuffled closer on the bed. Planning murders was so fun, especially with Oswald – it got him all giddy every time.

 

“Who is this man anyway, Eddie?” Oswald asked, and Edward’s smile turned upside down.

 

“He’s a typical hypermasculine cop, and he’s never liked me.” He answered, tone falling flat. “I didn’t even do anything for the torment, but he doesn’t seem to think he needs a reason.”

 

Oswald frowned, turning onto his side so he was facing Edward, and Edward mimicked the action.

 

“He’s jealous of me, that’s what it is,” Edward said. “He sees that I’m superior to him, and like many inferior beings with a superiority complex, it makes him angry. A man like Andrews is far too stupid to work out his anger in a rational way, so he becomes your typically bully.”

 

He frowned, sitting up and looking out the window rather than at Oswald, tracing the green of what letters he could see on the side of his apartment. He’d always liked green, it was the colour of life’s natural cycle; the leaves on the trees that created oxygen, before poisoning the very same air with carbon dioxide come nightfall, or the grass lesser animals ate to sustain life but unbeknown to them to also feed the predators – green was a colour of misdirection, a promise of life but really the road to death: paved with the false warmth mother nature whispered into unsuspecting ears.

 

“Well, he has reason to be jealous.” Edward smiled, he liked penguins too. “Everybody in that building seems to be a moron – except perhaps detective Gordon.” Then again, penguins were loud and smelt. “Though lately I’ve been considering if pursuing a friendship with him is worth it any longer.” But they are pretty cute, waddling around wanting to investigate everything.

 

“He’s expressed time and again he doesn’t wish to be associated with you,” Edward spoke up, lying back down so he was face to face with Oswald again. “And he didn’t allow you to kill Galavan after he’d killed your mother.”

 

Oswald’s thin lips pursed into a line; white bleeding into red from the pressure. “Yes, I suppose there was that.”

 

Edward could see the anger building in the mob boss’s eyes, and felt his own excitement building along with it. He liked Oswald best when he was angry – you could never quite predict what the short man was going to do, or if anyone was going to die.

 

“He doesn’t care about you,” he breathed, more of a whisper than anything, staring intently into blue eyes. “He never has done. You’re nothing but a nuisance to him, a dog loyal to a master who doesn’t want it. He wouldn’t care if you died. He wouldn’t even be glad – he would take no notice at all.”

 

Suddenly Edward was on his back looking up into a murderous expression, and he laughed gleefully, wrapping an arm around the back of Oswald’s neck and keeping him close.

 

“He finds you pathetic, you know. How you wormed your way to the top, the way you hung off your superiors’ like a skulking little snitch.”

 

A forearm pressed down against his throat, and Edward licked his lips, eyes bright as Oswald’s burned.

 

It was something like pleasure. Not exactly pleasure of course, because there was pain mixed in there and pain was something Edward associated with a lonely childhood, but at the same time it was exuberating and dizzying in the greatest possible way – like replacing an opium addict’s rat poison laced street heroine with pure diamorphine.

 

The push-pull, the adrenalin, kept on bringing him back. It was an addictive game he played, mental as opposed to chemical, seeing how far he could push the Penguin and get away with it. And over the past few months he’d gotten away with far more than he would have thought Oswald would allow him. But he guessed that was emotions for you; uncontrolled chemical reactions in the brain making your thoughts and actions react to a person in ways you never wished them to.

 

Edward understood, because despite his best efforts even he couldn’t beat biology. Edward knew he had some feelings for Oswald, ones he didn’t dwell on. Instead this is what he did; he poked and prodded at a dangerous man’s psyche, baiting the wolf, seeing just how far he could dig before that wolf finally snaps and rips his throat out.

 

He could say with some measure of confidence that Oswald himself enjoyed the game to a degree too. Oswald, even more so than Edward, didn’t understand simple affection – he wouldn’t know how to accept it. In their worlds nothing was unconditional, everything had a price, and the price was not always material. If Edward started acting like some loving, doting boyfriend he knew he’d be kicked to the kerb immediately by a flighty Oswald suspicious of his actions – if, that is, Penguin didn’t slit his throat first.

 

Edward was positive that’s why Oswald was so drawn to Jim Gordon; because Gordon would never want him – as a friend or more. Oswald was so used to rejection that he sought it out subconsciously. If Gordon were to suddenly turn around and offer his hand in friendship, Oswald would run a mile.

 

The pressure against his throat grew harder, until Edward began to choke. Miss Kringle’s last moments flashed before his eyes, her expression as he choked her to death, and he wondered if he looked like that now, if Oswald was seeing what he had.

 

Without thought, without meaning to, Edward moaned, the sound half choked off.

 

As soon as the noise had left his lips Oswald pulled away, easing off Edward but staying above him, bearing down on him with the look of a vulture watching its meal perish, the anticipation heightening with each shallowing breath.

 

A rush ran through the forensic scientist’s body at that thought, and he licked his dry lips.

 

All of a sudden Oswald’s expression changed and he was laughing, eyes very deep and blue. “You’re a kinky freak, Eddie.”

 

“Shut up,” Edward mumbled, too engrossed in leaning up and pressing his lips to Oswald’s in a manner far too violent to truly be a kiss.

 

He melted into the feeling of Oswald against him, clenching the arm around the smaller man’s neck hard enough to hurt, his other hand wrapping around Oswald’s shoulder, finger nails digging in harshly as teeth split his bottom lip. Pulling away for breath, he licked away the blood with a laugh. It was only a small cut, closed with a touch of saliva, but it left him hungry for more.

 

He spun them around until Oswald was on his back, dipping down to his neck and biting hard, bruising the skin like he had something to prove. When he pulled back he ran a soft finger over the mark, as if too rough a touch would defile it in some way – like a man of God so carefully and lovingly wiping clean a dirtied cross. Raising his eyes from the marred flesh to Oswald’s blue depths, Edward held his gaze with steady dark eyes. “Eleven pounds of pressure would compress your carotid arteries,” he breathed, running his hands down the sides of Oswald’s neck, a brush over the most delicate of canvases. “Here, each side of the trachea. Partially crushing one, you’d survive; both, unconsciousness in as little as fifteen seconds if done correctly. It would block the blood flow from your heart to your brain, and if your heart stopped, lying down as you are you’d have twelve seconds until unconsciousness had the strangulation not put you out.” He licked his lips, running his tongue over the exposed, pale neck, along the path of an artery so exposed and frail, and under him Oswald shivered, a quite groan falling from his lips. “It wouldn’t kill you, though, not right away. You’d lie there, prone, for minutes until your brain starved of oxygen. It would begin to die, brain damage setting in within three minutes, death in five.” He moved a hand, until it encased the mob boss’s whole neck, hand as gentle as a mother’s touch, yet still firmly pressed along the windpipe. “Or thirty-three pounds of pressure and I could crush your trachea. That would take longer to kill you, you’d lay there and choke, alone and helpless.”

 

“You certainly know how to flatter a guy,” Oswald grinned sharply, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath Edward’s grip. He could see the arousal in the smaller man’s eyes, dancing through his pupils as he gazed back up at Edward.

 

A quick flash of silver, and the unmistakable feel of cool metal pressed to his own throat, the pressure below his jaw. His pulse rate picked up under the blade – Oswald had located a carotid artery with ease. “Or I could slit right here, I could tilt your head back for the greatest amount of blood splatter, slicing a downward curve to ensure death. Would you like that, Edward? Imagine it, one push of this little piece of metal and I’d soak myself in your blood. You’d even have a few seconds to enjoy it before you passed out, dying within a minute, maybe thirty seconds.”

 

Edward stayed perfectly still, eyes wild and a manic grin stretching his lips. Now where had Oswald been keeping that knife? Penguin truly did seem fond of them, perhaps Edward should gift him one, and he could watch the man bleed others with Edward’s own present. It would be marvellous. He suddenly ached to see it, the shine dulled in drying blood, the light leaving a person’s eyes, the way Oswald’s breath increased from the adrenaline, his entire body humming with the gratification only a cold blooded murder brought. It was an extraordinary sight to behold.

 

“You look like you’d enjoy that, Edward. You enjoy watching me kill,” he gangster all but purred (and oh, how true that was), pushing his blade just a little deeper, until the shallowest of cuts nicked Edward’s skin. “Would the same be true if it were you I cut open?”

 

“Well,” Edward spoke carefully, not removing himself from the knife even though it would be so easy to just lean back. “I’d then not get to watch you do the same to others. And there’d be no more games to play, no more puzzles to solve, no more riddles to confuse the mindless public. So perhaps not, hmm?”

 

“Perhaps not.” Oswald’s grin became easy, like a friend telling a good joke, and he removed the knife, carelessly throwing it aside somewhere off the bed. “You are much more fun alive, Eddie, I can most certainly agree to that.”

 

Edward shot down and kissed him, all teeth and aggression born from pent up lust, threats and violence always the greatest foreplay. Oswald matched him in intensity, and Edward forgot the world as every sense zeroed in on Oswald, only able to see his red flushed skin, feel his heavy breaths, taste the unique sent that promised as much as a tiger crouched low amongst the bramble, touch the cloth of his shirt and the product laced hair on his head as a hand travelled up to cradle his skull, and hear the gasps expelled from him lungs.

 

Hand’s reached his chest, opening buttons and running over his bared skin, causing Edward to arch into the touch, craving this man he admired. He’d been a fan of Penguin’s work for so long, but he’d never have thought he’d get this. At least not when he was still such a bumbling fool, desperate to find acceptance in all the wrong places. Now he was his own man, somebody Penguin had helped shape him into becoming, and he would be forever grateful for that.

 

His shirt somehow hit the floor, joining the discarded knife, and Edward was so lost he honestly couldn’t remember pulling away from Oswald for it to be taken off – or maybe Oswald had grown impatient and tore it. The mob boss certainly lacked patience when a situation didn’t demand it. Edward quickly decided Oswald needed to be in the same state of undress. He worked quickly at his buttons with nimble fingers use to delicate work, and Oswald sat up so he could remove it. Once both shirtless they were laid back down again, Oswald on top this time so as to avoid Edward’s weight falling on his injured leg, both breathing heavy as their mouths met again, still just as passionate, still as hungry for each other as they’d been the first time they did this.

 

Soon they lost their pants, down to their underwear as they caressed each other’s bodies with soft and hard strokes, digging in nails and trailing deceptively soft kisses.

 

A bite to his shoulder that broke skin made him keen, and in retaliation he dragged his nails down the curve of Oswald’s back, scraping up skin as he ran them down to his lower back, until his exploring was blocked by the thin cloth of black briefs. Oswald bowed into his touch, shivering from the pleasurable pain which Edward received just as much thrill by causing.

 

“Which way do you wish to do this?” Oswald asked, pulling away so he could grab the lube Edward left nearby, but it would mean he had to leave the bed which Edward grumbled about.

 

He thought about it for a moment, removing his glasses so they wouldn’t be broken as Oswald left him for a few moments. Perhaps he should get a side table so that didn’t have to happen.

 

For two people who valued control above almost all other things, it was almost funny how both simply and civilly they could discuss sexual positions. It was a mix and match, really, though sometimes one would just throw the other down and that was that. Edward hadn’t had much pervious experience of sex (with either gender), Miss Kringle had been his first, so a grand total of two people. It was interesting how his views of power dynamics in sex changed the more he had it; the first time Oswald had fucked him he hadn’t been overly pleased, it was probably more his admiration of Penguin than real want that let it happen. Sure he was horny and willing to fuck, he just hadn’t fully thought through the changing mechanics of intercourse between two men. He’d felt lacking in control, submissive, and that wasn’t a feeling he enjoyed. But over the past few months his view changed, and he came to the conclusion that he really could be in control regardless, whether top or bottom he could turn Oswald into a panting mess desperate for him.

 

Though occasionally it was nice to just let go, to have somebody else do all the work to please him and simply reap the benefits. Then there were times like today, when Penguin held a knife to his throat, bruised him, made him bleed and it evoked something in Edward he very rarely felt. A dash of masochism perhaps? Possibly learnt subconscious behaviour from bullying where he’d cling onto any small shred of sympathy shown, even if by the bully. It was rather pathetic of him, and something he’d have to figure out and work on.

 

But Oswald felt it too, for the same reasons. Oswald liked power and control, but there was that submissive streak he tried to keep buried. It crept out mostly when he was in danger and needed to garner pity. Clearly, given the position he’d risen too, it was a tactic that worked well for him. Maybe Edward didn’t need to squash his own sense of it; maybe he could put it to his advantage, too.

 

Small tickles of blood were running down Edward’s shoulder, and the already scabbed cut on his lip had a small, lasting sting. Everything felt so real with Oswald, every part of Edward he touched he left a reminder, and Edward loved it. He’d been over looked for so long that somebody wanting him to remember them was a new kind of high all in itself.

 

Seems he was having one of those days.

 

“You top today,” he decided. He wanted to feel Oswald open him up, plunge inside and own him for a while. He wanted something rough and heated, so real it was a physical ache, the unmistakable sensation of being taken, being wanted and craved. He wanted to see Oswald exert himself to give Edward pleasure, to be fully focused on his body and how to please him. “Make it hurt, please.”

 

Oswald was back over him, lube held loose in one hand, the other gripping the sheets. It may be smart to use condoms, but neither were sleeping around (as far as Edward knew at least – he’d never bothered to ask) and they were all about risk, they thrived on it. Besides, it felt better this way, wilder and realer in a sense. It was just him and Oswald this way, nothing artificial between them.

 

There wasn’t much prep work, the bare minimal to accommodate him, before Oswald was pushing in and Edward closed his eyes and let the burn wash over him, savouring it for as long as he could.

 

Oswald did as he’d asked, giving him no time to adjust to the penetration before he began moving, and Edward breathed out a heavy breath from his nose at the first thrust. He needed this right now, needed to feel Oswald falling so deep into him, needed somebody to crave him, to give him what he needed to know he was craved. Oswald touched him and saw him like a real person, not an annoyance or hindrance or the overlooked bespectacled nerd, and it was a sense of empowerment in its own way. He wasn’t forcing Oswald’s attention, he didn’t have it simply because he was inflicting pain upon his person; he had it because Oswald wanted _him_ , Edward Nygma. This was a victory.

 

There was no rhythm to it, just hard disjointed thrusts Edward couldn’t predict. Oswald held him too tightly and too loosely, driving his hips too fast and too slow, pushing deep and shallow, it was ever changing and maddening and Edward didn’t know if he wanted to shout out in indignation or encouragement.

 

This was Oswald’s way of taking control, but in this moment Edward didn’t care, too caught up in the rush. Right now he wanted this, and he moaned with a wince when Oswald adjusted his angle the barest amount to cause the pleasure-pain scale to tip just slightly into the latter.

 

Edward had asked for this, wanted to still feel Oswald when he’d left him, so he didn’t fight it. He rocked down onto the other man, spurring him on to fuck him even harder.

 

He briefly thought about calling him Mr Penguin now in this situation, just to see how the man would react to it, but before the thought could even fully form he lost his breath as Oswald shifted once again and hit his prostate dead on. Bastard.

 

Biting his own lip, Edward pushed up his hips, forcing Oswald to have to go along with him, and they met eyes, a challenge passing between them.

 

A lot of things were games, and this was one of the best ones. He wanted to make Oswald come first. He kissed him, hot tongues fighting like a dance, teeth clinking together, sweat sticking their skin into one and neither held back, thrusting and bucking, seeing who would win. He curled a hand against the side of Oswald’s neck, reminding him of those delicate arteries and a hand gripped his hair in return.

 

He laughed against Oswald’s lips, pleased by the response. As their bodies continued to move together, they finally fell in sync. Oswald was no longer teasing, it had become a race to the finish line, and whoever lost won.

 

Edward was too hot, skin flushed and sweat stinging his cuts, but it was fucking amazing, exhilarating, and he was determined to push Oswald over that edge into hazy bliss. He didn’t lose his games.

 

“D-During sex, activity in the anterior cingulate cortex and the insular cortex increases, confusing pleasure and pain,” Edward panted. “That’s why when a p-person orgasms they often look like they are in pain.”

 

“Shut up,” Oswald said, teeth grit, and Edward watched perspiration pool above his lip.

 

In the end, Edward got it his way. Oswald faulted, and Edward knew he had him. With perfectly timed thrusts of his hips and coaxing of muscles, Oswald spilt with a heavy breath, dark hair plastered to his forehead and the building bead of sweat falling from his lips to wet Edward’s chest.

 

He watched as Oswald hit his peak, smug to have been the one to cause it, happy over his victory.

 

“Damn,” the mobster groaned as he came down from his high, a rush of endorphins racing through his brain as he began to soften. He was aware enough to not forget about Edward, and slipped out as he wrapped a hand around him.

 

Edward let him, so close himself. All it took was a few strokes from a rough, calloused hand and he joined Oswald in self-producing chemical bliss. With a white and sticky hand Oswald fell down beside him, and for a few long moments they simply lay there side by side, staring up at the green hued ceiling as they caught their breath.

 

“I’m going to take Andrews tomorrow,” Edward decided, high on endorphins and the rush of sex with a person who could so easily end him. “You can show me the warehouse then.”

 

“Just tell me when and where you need to meet me,” Oswald replied, voice muffled as he pressed his closed lips to Edward’s neck, not kissing: just resting against him, breathing him in, and Edward wrapped an arm around him, holding Gotham’s most notorious criminal close.


	3. Chapter 3

Edward arrived at work bright and early, one of the first in on the day shift. Doctor Thompkins was there too, and he greeted her pleasantly, happily handing over an extra coffee he’d bought on the way to the station. He’d thought she might be here, and there was nothing wrong with keeping people on his good side, especially since Gordon would most likely begin to truly suspect him soon. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to have the man’s girlfriend on his side defending him when the time came. That and he did actually rather like the doctor, she was one of the few people who was always nice to him, even if she’d rather he keep his distance.

 

“Thank you, Edward,” she said with a smile, taking the cup and having a sip.

 

“Need help with anything?” Edward asked politely.

 

She looked around the room, then back to him. “Nope, I think everything’s good here for the time being.”

 

So Edward nodded and excused himself, heading over to his own desk to finish his coffee before the morning really started.

 

Day shift officers were beginning to file in at a slow trickle that gradually grew faster. Jim Gordon was one of the first, Harvey Bullock was one of the last. Officer Andrews, the one Edward was interested in, was somewhere in the middle. Never early, never late, just another boring cog in the system – how many people would actually miss him, Edward mused. A lot of people would secretly and silently be glad to be rid of him, he imagined, even if outwardly they’d put on the masks of civility society expected. Hiding cruelty – so horrendous only humans were capable of such imaginative and dastardly feats – behind faked empathy was a talent unique to their species, and endlessly fascinating. Even a cat didn’t try to hide the joy it took from torturing its prey before death; only humans would pretend to be civilised while turning killers into deities.

 

With no mask, Edward watched as officer Andrews walked in with his partner, they were laughing together about something.

 

“Soon,” Edward muttered into his empty cup, before getting up to throw it in the trash.

 

For now he turned away from officer Andrews and headed to the morgue to run a few experiments. Mostly for work, but he was curious about a few things he wanted to try out for future murders, and a corpse was the perfect practise dummy. Just how large of a small object could he place under a fingernail without it being obvious? What was the best way to slip under them to cut into the nail bed? It would be a fun place to leave a few clues. He certainly didn’t want to use an electric cautery to melt a hole into the nail, which would be far too obvious. A paperclip would cause too much of a mess, damaging the nail and again making it obvious. An 18-gauge needle was out of the question too, used too often to treat nail bed injures. He needed something like a 29-gauge extra-fine insulin syringe needle, but again, they were already used for nail bed injures. Edward wanted something new, something he could put his own spin on. Something that would leave so little damage that even a senior expert could easily overlook it, but at the same time something that could be used to insert evidence for those smart enough to look. Last month a victim of his was brought in and quickly written off as an accidental death. Edward had been disappointed; he’d had big plans for that one. But Edward wouldn’t make it easier, if they were too dumb to play, then they were eliminated from the game. There were plenty of new potential opponents.

 

And so he spent the next five hours completing the majority of his assigned work, and then sticking various small objects under finger nails. By the time lunch rolled around he remained unsatisfied.

 

But he would experiment further with that at a later date, for now it was about time he showed officer Andrews some attention.

 

Setting his plan into motion was childishly easy. People like officer Andrews were so simply manipulated; his ego was far too big and so fragile. All it took was a few whispered rumours that his partner was sleeping with Mrs Andrews and the man lost it. All Edward had needed was a public argument, but the bull-headed man had laid right into his partner in the middle of the precinct with almost every cop in Gotham there to witness. Edward had pressed a hand to his mouth, hiding his laugh in the shadows while Jim Gordon – of course it was him – jumped in to break them up. The new captain didn’t even poke his head out of his office to see what was going on, much to Edward’s satisfaction.

 

As Jim pulled officer Andrews back he caught an elbow to the chest, and Harvey had to be roped in to help his partner out and restrain the other man – what was his name again? Oh, who cared, he was unimportant.

 

With shouted threats of broken bones and violent deaths, Gordon and Bullock were successful in separating them, ordering them to calm down with harsh tones that promised trouble if they didn’t obey.

 

Job done for now, Edward slinked off back to the morgue with a strong sense of satisfaction, happy to fall into work. A young woman with injuries received in a fierce beating and a slit throat was awaiting his presence, after all.

 

All he’d needed to do was set up a suspect. Now when officer Andrews went missing, the first person they’d look to was his partner, giving Edward plenty of time to play. Although he was sure officer Andrews partner wouldn’t be their only line of enquiry, it still gave Edward time to do everything he wished.

 

Gently singing to himself, he pulled back the cover hiding away the woman and smiled down at the corpse pillowed by hair the same colour as Miss Kringle’s had been.

 

“Today is going to be a good day,” he promised her, bringing out a scalpel. “Well… I suppose it wasn’t a good day for you, being murdered by your boyfriend and what not. But I understand; I’ve been there. Though I was on the other end of it, of course. Small world.”

 

He turned on the recording to document the autopsy, and pressed the scalpel to her bare skin.

 

“Nothing warms me more than my, my mother’s love,” he hummed to himself as he cut open her chest.

 

 

~*~

 

 

“Why must you insist on making thing’s difficult?” Oswald half sighed, half snapped. Who’d have guessed that running a crime empire meant dealing with so many morons? Crooks, back stabbers, murderers, pimps and prostitutes, rapists and people who got off on killing little old ladies he expected, but there was simply no excuse for idiocy. It was an embarrassment to him; he wouldn’t allow any lackey to make a fool of himself, as it would reflect badly upon him, his leadership and his business. When one was a mob boss, one had to keep up a good reputation. Oswald hired professionals, not men and women so stupid that they didn’t even know how to load a gun, or to turn off the safety before attempting to shoot.

 

It was enough to give a blessed saint a headache.

 

“Victor, please be a dear and teach this man the basics of gun use,” he said, turning his gaze to the assassin. “But don’t waste too much time on him. If he can’t shoot straight within the hour, simply dispose him. There are plenty of replacements, this is after all Gotham.”

 

“My pleasure, boss,” Victor replied, eyes wide and piercing in an empty sort of way as he reached down and pulled the useless man up from the ground.

 

“No, no, please,” the man begged, clearly terrified of Victor. “Please, Mr Penguin, I promise I’ll do better, please.”

 

Oswald tsked, waving a finger at him. “No need to make a fuss, my good sir, you are only receiving some training.”

 

Gabe moved out of the way of the door, and Victor dragged the panicking man out. Oswald chuckled as they left, shaking his head fondly.

 

“Victor certainly does make an impression.”

 

Gabe nodded silently, unbothered by the whole event. “What now, boss?”

 

“Do you have any new information about our vigilante issue on the docks? Is that now taken care of?” He asked, making his exit from the door Victor passed through, Gabe a few steps behind him.

 

“Dealt with,” Gabe informed. “Some guy in a fox mask I think. Didn’t save him from being riddled with bullets.”

 

“That is good news,” Oswald nodded. “Any other problems I should be aware of?”

 

“Not that I know, boss.”

 

Heading a criminal organisation was a lot of work, even morons aside, but Oswald wanted to be in the knowhow of everything. He refused to place complete trust in others, even if he did need to rely on them for running operations smoothly. But with extortion, racketeering, drug smuggling and dealing, human trafficking, prostitution, offshore illegal internet gambling, local illegal gambling on- and off-line, _legal_ gambling, contract killing and far more going on every minute night and day, it was lots to do.

 

“What about the Russo situation, do his people want retribution?” They reached Oswald’s office, and he gladly fell into his high back seat. He’d been up and walking far too long without a break, and his leg was causing him some pain.

 

“They can’t prove you did anything, boss,” Gabe shrugged. “And now he’s out the way they’re scattered. They wouldn’t dare come after you; you’re too powerful a figure.”

 

Oswald smirked at that. He did so enjoy such compliments. “Do you believe that they shall fall into line?”

 

“Not all of them was as loyal to Maroni as Russo was, if we get one loyal to you in charge of the joint, the others should fall in to place.”

 

Oswald nodded. “Is there anyone?”

 

“Agosto’s been keeping tabs on ‘em, boss.” Gabe said, shifting his weight, so Oswald invited him to sit with a wave of his hand. Gabe had been up on his feet even longer than him. The man took a seat with a polite thanks. “There’s this one lady who looks promising, Rivera is her name. Apparently raising up in the ranks quick this past year. Loyal – or at least says to be – to whosever’s at the top.”

 

“Very well,” Oswald replied. “Set up an appointment.” He didn’t really need her to be loyal, most of Penguin’s people would kill him to get his position but he understood this. He’d done it himself to Fish, Maroni and Falcone. All he needed was someone who’d efficiently contribute to his empire, and if this Rivera could do that then she could scheme behind his back as much as the others. The only people Oswald let close to him, to guard him, where those he felt were actually loyal. It didn’t matter why, if it was money or otherwise, just that he could be comfortable they wouldn’t stab him in the back – literally or figuratively. The best such people were ones who lacked ambition, who were happy to follow orders. Gabe, for example, was happy where he was and had no desire to be the don, plus Oswald paid him a _lot_ of money. Gabe’s job was simple; he just had to keep Penguin safe, and Oswald was comfortably sure that’s exactly what the man would do, and all he would do. Though Oswald suspected the man had come to rather like him since he’d often volunteer to kill his enemies in order to save Oswald the risk of being injured or killed doing it himself, something which Oswald appreciated even if he’d always decline. Gabe was probably Oswald’s favourite. He liked Victor too, but didn’t trust the assassin nearly as much. Though he was great fun to work with – Oswald could appreciate a morbid sense of humour.

 

 

~*~

 

 

“Killed with a gargoyle,” Harvey sighed. “Lovely. It doesn’t leave a mess at all.”

 

“A grotesque,” Edward corrected, squatting down to examine the body. The skull was completely caved in, a portion of the brain matter on the concrete, as well as a few pieces of shattered skull. At least three ribs looked to be crushed also, the thoracic wall noticeably shattered. He picked up a hand, and sure enough they too were damaged, perhaps a few breaks and fractures. The man had put up a fight, that much was obvious, though it clearly did him no good. Edward turned his eyes to the statue used as the murder weapon, left lying there covered in blood. This wasn’t a smart killer; there would be DNA evidence all over the weapon and victim. Most likely a rash killing due to rage. Boring.

 

“A what?” Detective Gordon asked, and Edward stood back up to face him, unwilling to have to look up to him. On his feet, Gordon had to look up to _him_.

 

“A grotesque,” he smiled, always happy and willing in impart information on the less fortunate. “It’s only a gargoyle if water emits from it. Gargoyles, from the French word gargouillie meaning throat or gullet, are used as gutters to prevent rainwater from eroding mortar off masonry walls. A grotesque such as this has no function other than decoration. Common mistake.”

 

He looked up to the afternoon sun, a hand shading his eyes. Evening would be setting in soon. Officer Andrews didn’t have much freedom left, pity the man didn’t know that to enjoy it. He’d been told to go home after the fight with his partner, but stubbornly stayed. This worked out perfectly for Edward as the two men continued to exchange heated words and break out into small scuffles all day.

 

“Well whatever it is, it’s clearly the murder weapon,” Jim said. “Let’s bag it and get it dusted at the lab.”

 

The crime scene was slowly packed away, and the body taken by the coroners. Edward caught a lift with Jim and Harvey back to the precinct, happily talking about the history of gargoyles and their use to ward off evil spirits as the two detectives pretended to listen. He didn’t really mind their disinterest today, far too pleased about his plans after work. The wait was exciting; he enjoyed building up to things rather than acting spur of the moment.

 

Once back at the station there was paperwork to be done and filed on the grotesque killing but that was mostly the detectives job. Edward signed the victim into the morgue with the few details that he had, and then his shift was coming to an end. This meant play time.

 

He bid goodbye to doctor Thompkins and headed out to the bullpen, scanning the crowd for that familiar figure. Officer Andrews was so loud and obnoxious it didn’t take long. Target located, Edward easily slinked back into the shadows, nobody noticing him. He observed officer Andrews for the next few minutes, making sure the man was getting ready to leave himself. Once satisfied, Edward headed out to wait.

 

Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes – there! Officer Andrews excited the building, and Edward watched with keen eyes as he got into his car. He waited for the oaf to leave the parking lot, and then followed.

 

Officer Andrews hailed from a more affluent part of Gotham, with tree lined streets and houses occupied by doctors and lawyers and bored, dissatisfied spouses engaging in adultery. It had long winding roads, and an empty stretch to road to reach it – after all, such people don’t want to be bothered by the riff-raff of Gotham’s slums.

 

Edward followed him to the stretch of empty road, and then flashed his lights to gain his attention. Sure enough, the man pulled over. Edward parked behind him, engine still running and waited for officer Andrews to leave his vehicle. He didn’t turn his lights off, so the cop couldn’t see his face in the glare of light.

 

“What’s up, man. I got a broken taillight or something?”

 

Edward fingered the syringe in his hand, and put his other on the door handle. As soon as officer Andrews was close enough he opened it fast, hitting the man hard and jumped from his car, injecting the drug before the man could comprehend what was happening.

 

Green eyes landed on brown, and officer Andrews eyes darkened as they met and recognised Edward. “What the Hell are you playing at, Nygma?! What was that?!” He took a threatening step towards him, but stumbled, eyes growing wide in surprise. Edward smiled at him, nothing kind in it. He watched silently as officer Andrews tried to take another step and fell to the ground in a pseudo-bow at Edward’s feet, soil marring his skin and dirtying his clothes. Fitting. It took only a few more seconds for him to black out.

 

Edward moved as quickly as he could, picking up the bulky man under his arms and half carrying, half dragging him to his car. He heaved him up onto the backseat, struggling under the dead weight, but he got it done and shut the door. Plastic covers over his shoes prevented his footprints being left at the scene, but he did nothing about officer Andrews’. He quickly scanned the road, making sure there were no tyre tracks and then got back behind the wheel, pulling off into the night.

 

He headed for the city limits, following the directions Oswald had given him, every so often looking back to check on his unwitting passenger.

 

When he finally reached the warehouse, Oswald was there to meet him with a smile on his face.

 

Together they brought the man inside, and Oswald showed him to a room with chains that ended in cuffs dangling from the ceiling. Other than the chains, only a single chair occupied the room. The bland walls were faded white, the paint cracking and peeling in places, and over head a light cast an ugly yellow hue. A single, small dusty window let in barely any natural light. It suited officer Andrews well, Edward decided.

 

“What exactly are you going to do with him?” Oswald asked as they cuffed him and strung him up, like a piñata at a very interesting children’s party. Edward was certainly excited to break him open and see what was inside.

 

“Why not watch?” Edward replied, flicking the cop on the forehead to see if he got any response. The drug should be wearing off soon. “I plan on keeping him for a few days, at least.”

 

“Is he the new Mr Leonard?” Oswald asked, clear amusement in his tone.

 

Edward chuckled. “Ah, poor Mr Leonard. We did get rather enthusiastic, didn’t we?” He looked to Oswald. “Want to stay?”

 

Oswald glanced at his watch. He was meeting with Russo’s possible new replacement was soon, Edward remembered. He’d sent a text saying he’d likely not be staying long, but surely he had at least an hour or so.

 

“I’m afraid not, Eddie,” he confirmed, and Edward tried not to be disappointed. “But I’ll come back with you tomorrow. Your place tonight?”

 

Edward nodded, just as officer Andrews let out a low groan and his eyes returned to his prey. “I may be back late.”

 

“I understand.” Oswald kissed him like he was trying to bruise him, hand gripping his shirt collar roughly, but pulled away just as quickly. “Have fun.”

 

Edward fondly watched him hobble out, and then turned his full attention onto the strung up pig.

 

“Wakey wakey, Andrews. Time to play.”

 

Another groan, and slowly lids lifted, repeatedly fluttering closed over green eyes. Edward waited patiently as the man slowly became aware of himself, and then his surroundings. As soon as he realised his predicament, he struggled hard, trying to pull his restraints loose and Edward laughed at him.

 

“There’s really no point,” he said, reaching up to tap the chains. “You aren’t the first to try, and it’s yet to work. Salvatore Maroni occasionally brought people who upset him here.”

 

“What the Hell is this, Nygma?” Officer Andrews demanded, and Edward shook his head regrettably. Honestly, even in this situation the man didn’t know his place – or mind his manners.

 

“This is the vicissitude of life,” Edward laughed darkly, pulling a sharp blade from his pocket and swinging the knife into officer Andrews view and out again in quick succession. “How things can change so quickly.”

 

Officer Andrews jaw clenched, and he looked at Edward with burning anger, but the scientist could see the weariness behind it that was slowly morphing to fear. It was delicious.

 

“You see, officer Andrews, there are a few things you don’t know about me,” Edward continued, running the blade lightly over the skin of the man’s cheek, not enough to cut, just to spike his fear, to get his blood pumping with it, to make his upcoming pain just that much more intense. “You see, I’ve taken up a… extracurricular activity, so to speak.” He smiled, the silver shine of his blade reflecting in his glasses and Andrews whimpered. It was a glorious sound, a private orchestra for Edward’s ears alone.

 

“Can you guess what it is, officer Andrews?” He teased. “Riddle me this. A flock of crows and a word whispered in the streets. A sob in the day and a scream that piercers the night.” He looked to the man strung up in chains, defenceless and weak, and to his utter delight Andrews didn’t meet his gaze, didn’t try to defy him; him turned his head away, lips pressed tight. A quick leaner, good.

 

“No?” Edward mocked, face pulling into a faux-sympathetic frown. “But I made it so easy for you.” Suddenly, he smacked officer Andrews hard across the face, laughing loud and unrestrained when he swung to the side from the force of the blow. “Come on, answer! A child would get it.”

 

“You’re a sick fuck, Nygma,” officer Andrews spat between clenched teeth. “I just didn’t realise how much.”

 

“Oh no, I’m not sick,” Edward said, cupping a hand over the man’s chin to force eye contact, grin lighting his features. “I’m finally free. Free from the people like you who think you’re so much better because what? Rich parents? Football captain at school? Police officer above the law? Just what exactly makes you think you’re so much better than me? Not that it really matters now, I suppose. This new freedom, it’s given me some perspective on life, it’s made me realise a lot. For example,” he jabbed the knife into his shoulder, not deep enough to do any real damage, just hurt him, “I’ve come to realise that I don’t have to hide away. I don’t have to put up with apes like you. I can tear you down and have you screaming at my own leisure.” Edward laughed and jabbed the knife into him again, a little deeper this time, and he only laughed harder when the cop screamed. “It’s a wonderful feeling.”

 

He removed the knife, holding the blade up to eye level as he watched the blood drip. It would dry up soon, losing that beautiful liquid gleam like red diamond. Never mind, he could always replace it.

 

“But I’m not going to hurt you too much yet,” he said, moving his gaze from red to green, and that green gaze was just as fiery, promised just as much passion as the blood. Edward suppressed a shiver of excitement. “I’m going to let you hang here, all night, get your body weak and strained, and _then_ we can have some real fun. Once you’re aching, I’ll have your tired muscles trembling, until the only thing keeping you up is those chains.”

 

“You really think you’ll get away with this, Nygma?” Officer Andrews said, and he tried to be brave but his voice trembled under the anger. “The cops will know within ten minutes of seeing you.”

 

“Well, they haven’t yet,” Edward dismissed casually, and giggled at officer Andrews weary confusion. “Oh come on. You don’t seriously think Miss Kringle really ran off with an abusive man, do you?” Officer Andrews eyes widened in realisation, the fear in them reaching forwards, becoming ever brighter and Edward sank into it, revelled in it. “Yes, I killed her. And I haven’t been caught yet. I haven’t been caught for your friend Dougherty’s murder either!”

 

“Son of a bitch!” Oh, and there was a strong reaction! The cop thrust forward, trying with all his might to take a swing at the forensic scientist-come-killer, and for the fruitless attempt Edward just laughed and laughed. “I’ll fucking kill you, you sick bastard!”

 

“Promises, promises,” Edward giggled. “Do you know what I’m known as, officer Andrews? It’s a new name – The Riddler. Has a nice ring to it, don’t ya think?” He beamed, head titled just slightly as he observed the man, his glasses slipping partly down his nose. He pushed them up, so the thick rim didn’t disrupt his view as he was sure things were about to become highly entertaining.

 

“That’s _you_?” Surprise, but it didn’t last long. Not in this situation. Not strung up and bleeding, kept like a pig for slaughter by the man who loved riddles.

 

“Ta da!” He grinned, hands out as if to embrace his new identity, all dramatics and flare. Oswald would be proud, the dramaqueen. “The new and improved Edward Nygma.”

 

Officer Andrews struggled again – fight or flight Edward didn’t know, as the man looked both piss pants terrified and ragingly murderous. An interesting combination. He was tempted to unlock the cuffs, let him down, see what happened. But Edward wasn’t deluded as to his own short comings – he didn’t match up to his new pet’s physical strength. The cop would get away, and Edward didn’t fancy a prison cell. It would be incredibly boring.

 

Instead he placed a hand to the injured shoulder, pressing hard, coaxing out more blood and allowing it to coat his hand, pale skin quickly darkening red.

 

“We are going to have so much fun together, officer Andrews,” he promised, digging a finger into the wound and making him scream. “All these years of animosity when we could have been here playing this game together... A shame, truly, but we have plenty of time now to make up for it.”


End file.
